


love me for the weekend

by hansens



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Life Partners, Life after the war, M/M, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 04:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14730020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hansens/pseuds/hansens
Summary: All you have is this one weekend.And perhaps many other weekends like this one – secretive and confined and hidden.





	love me for the weekend

**Author's Note:**

> this idea popped up while i was listening to "the words" by christina perri. enjoy!

It’s quiet and awfully lonely.

  
It’s been ten years since you’ve been thrown into a frenzy of exploding artillery, rapid gunfire, the coppery smell of blood, and constant expectation of death. Every time you close your eyes, you are taken back to mountains of dead bodies – of young men thrown into a war who never got to go home to their mothers. You barely made it out alive, and you are happy that you did. But at the back of your mind, there is a strange longing for shared foxholes, stale rations and, most of all, big brown eyes.

  
Even after working for Lew’s family, he still sends you letters every once in a while. He talks about where he is, what he’s doing, and asks how you are. It takes every bit of courage for you to write back, to pick up the pen and tell him how much you’re doing well. You tell him about how you spend your days on your farm, tending to your chickens and cows and pigs; about how you’re still getting used to falling asleep without the fear of having someone bomb you every few minutes; about how you wish he visited because you missed him too much. You leave the last part out. One day, he writes about a girl he met, and you try not to worry too much about him being heartbroken that you don’t realize your own heart is shattering at the very mention of a ‘her.’

  
You try to move on, you do. Whenever you go to town, you attempt to flirt with a young lady who was interested. But in your head, you are already crossing off a list of criteria that she could never meet. It was difficult to find someone who lived up to your expectations when Lew was already the best you’ve ever had.

  
Sometimes you catch yourself thinking of him when you’re in bed; the weight of his body beside yours and the feel of his skin and the dirt on his hair. Sometimes you subconsciously grab a bottle of his favorite blended whisky when you’re at the grocery; you have a stash of untouched alcohol in your kitchen cupboard. Sometimes when the loneliness gets too much to handle, you go for a morning swim at a nearby lake, and every single time, you hope that he’s at the edge of the pier, holding your towel, a little smirk on his face.

  
One day, he writes you nothing but a telephone number. You are off to a nearby telephone box in no time. He says he’s just gotten a new telephone, now that his last one was broken. You two never really did this before – talk over the phone. It takes you a minute to input his number.

  
The phone rings. You feel every vibration taking you closer to him.

  
“Hello?”

  
You catch your breath. His voice is still the same, only less rough, less coarse. Lighter. “ _Lew_. Lew, it’s Dick.”

  
“Dick!” he exclaims, and the sound of him saying your name leaves your legs weak. “I’m glad you called. I’ve missed you.” He says it almost in a whisper. As if he were sharing a secret between only the two of you.

  
You close your eyes and smile against the phone. “I’ve missed you too.”

  
For a moment, none of you know what to say. You are both content in hearing each other through the telephone, breathing. You hold on to the sound of his chest rising and falling. Your head feels lighter, calmer, and suddenly you don’t feel that much alone anymore. He starts to talk again, he always was the talker, and you nod and listen and sometimes throw your snide remarks. He laughs, and by _God_ , you would do anything to preserve that laugh forever. An hour into the conversation, he talks about coming over.

  
To you.

  
You try to ignore the heat rising up to your chest as he plans your weekend over the phone. He’ll come over via the train on Saturday, bringing only one suitcase and a couple bucks, and he will be here. With you. Alone together. For a weekend. It’s more than you could ask for.

  
You pretend not to count the days until he’s there.

  
On Saturday, you spend the whole morning sitting on your dining table and trying to read a book. You pass by the couple of pages without ever really understanding, because any moment from now, he will knock on your door, and _he will be here_. You’ve already prepared the guest bedroom, lined his shelf with the Vat 69, combed your hair over and over again to make it look at least presentable. Your eyes glance ever so often to the grandfather clock in your living room. You listen to every tick, impatient.

  
There is a knock on your door.

  
You launch yourself from your seat as fast as you could and stand in front of the door. You could make out his silhouette from the thin cloth over the glass. You open the door.

  
Lew’s still the same as he was. His pale skin looks healthier, not riddled with the dirt and blood from the war. He’d tried to shave, but you could see a hint of stubble on his chin. His dark brown hair is combed to the side, ochre eyes intense yet held a certain softness. He’s smiling. You take him in a tight embrace, and he drops his suitcase and rubs your back. You make sure he’s real as you bury your head in his neck, smelling his hair. He’s still the same, only happier. Happier with someone who was not you.

  
You take him to his room – the room that was just in front of yours, and all the while, he never says a word. He does not say your name even if you wished he did. A flicker in his eyes told you that something was wrong. You never push it. He would always tell you what was bothering him if you gave him enough time. You have an infinite amount of patience when it comes to Lewis Nixon, and you are not planning on dropping that record now.

  
You cook dinner – chicken, peas and mashed potatoes. He’s at the dining room table, watching you as he drinks the alcohol you prepared for him. You look over your shoulder and he is still watching, and there is still that look in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place. It makes you uncomfortable, how you’ve always wanted him here and now that he is, you couldn’t say a single word. The air is heavy with words unspoken, and nobody dared to cut right through it.

  
He volunteers to wash the dishes so you retreat to the bathroom. From the door, you can hear the running water, clanking of the plates, turning off of the taps and walking up the stairs. A hollow hole in your chest tightens as tears threaten to escape from your eyes, but you are strong enough to hold it in. You thought when he came, it’d be the same as it was five years ago. But you were wrong. You went and lived different lives, grew and matured. You weren’t the young boys who fell in love in the middle of a war anymore. He has a girl waiting for him back home. Clearly, he’d moved on and you still haven’t. Clearly, this was a bad idea.

  
So, you change to dry clothes and stand in front of his door. You almost knock. _Almost_. Until you turn around and retreat to your own bedroom. How could he be here, ten feet away, yet still be so far? How could he suggest he visit you when all you could remember are the days spent in your billeted rooms, skin on skin, lips on lips? How dare he disturb your peace with his presence and temptations?

  
You collapse on your bed and try to fall asleep. He will only be here for two nights. No matter how much you try to hate him for putting you in this position, you promise yourself to enjoy the limited days you have with him. After all, he is still your best friend, and you are still his. All you have to do is forget the intimate moments in your relationship. Easier said than done.

  
When you try to fall asleep, the floorboard moves and creaks, the sound of footsteps comes closer as you sit up on your bed, chest beating. A turn on the knob. The opening of the door. Lew meets your eyes and welcomes himself in, and closes the door behind him. He looks distressed, worn down, unhappy. He sits at the side of your bed, close enough for your knees to touch his side. Something about this is familiar. He looks at you – really _stares_ – and you finally figure out the feeling you see in his eyes: longing.

  
You move closer and touch the side of his face, directing him to not take his eyes off of you. It’s been five years since you’ve done this. Your thumb absently caresses his cheek, and he leans towards your palm like he has found his one solace.

  
He says, “Dick, I – “

  
You silence him with your mouth. He gasps but does not protest, so you take it as a good sign as you move on top of him, straddling his hips as he grabs your waist. Your movement is slow, almost calculated, as you savor his taste on your tongue. He moans and your brain explodes of euphoria, suddenly pushing him to your bed and pinning him down. Your mouth leaves his and trails kisses down his cheek and his neck and the small peak of his broad shoulder underneath his shirt. You stop and look at him, flustered and red under your touch, mouth parted slightly in pleasure.

  
You bow down and move your head closer to his, lips hovering against each other but never quite touching. “Lew, Lew, Lew, Lew,” you repeat in his mouth. Even with your eyes closed, you could feel the smile forming on his face.

  
“Dick, it’s been too long,” he starts to say, but you kiss him again, your hands travelling to his thick hair.

  
You’re lucky you don’t have any neighbors but the animals in your barn, because what transpired that night left the both of you screaming and moaning and heaving messes, bouts of pleasure lasting until the break of day. You try to memorize every dot on his white skin, every strand of hair and the feel of his hard chest. You try to memorize the face he makes when you hit the right spot, the redness of his lips after you’re done ravaging his mouth. You try to memorize his earthy smell and ochre eyes and the way he says “I love you” like he’s never said it before. You try to remember every single piece of him, because in only a few days, he’ll be taken from you again.

  
As he sleeps on the crook of your armpit with his arm stretched across your waist, you imagine a world where the two of you could be together. It seems impossible, yes, but you believe it for as long as you can. You do not think of the people telling you it’s unnatural, you do not think of the law that thinks you are invalid, you do not think of the Bible or your goddamn religion. They tell you that what you are feeling is wrong, but when you are with him, you feel love in a million multitudes. How you wish you could kiss him before he leaves for work, adopt children and have a family and take them to school, walk your dog and live a full life (in Pennsylvania or New Jersey or somewhere in between). But you can’t have that.

  
All you have is this one weekend.

  
And perhaps many other weekends just like this one – secretive and confined and hidden.

  
You can’t help but feel spite running through your veins when you think about how happy the both of you could be if you could tell the world that you love him. You led a goddamn battalion into war and risked your life for your country, couldn’t you at least have this in return? Can’t you be selfish just this once? Why is it that the one thing you love the most is the most impossible thing to have? You try to be mad but you can’t, not when he’s sleeping on your chest, peaceful and alive and _here_.

  
You spend the entire day together, laughing and kissing and talking about nothing. He helps you tend to your animals and ultimately falls in the mud. You cook him lunch and he hugs you from behind, nuzzling his nose at the nape of your neck. You have fun washing the dishes together, bumping your hips and smearing soap on your faces. You go to town for groceries and you resist the urge to hold his hand and tell the world that he’s yours; the flirtatious young lady spots you and tries to open up a conversation, Lew merely laughs at the look on your horrified face. You learn more about him as you walk through the aisles: his favorite cereals, favorite wine (you thought he loved _all_ of them), favorite whatever. When you get home, he pins you to the wall and kisses you and holds your hair in his hands.

  
You don’t drink, but you feel intoxicated.

  
“I’m scared, Dick,” he says as the both of you are sitting on your bed, clothed thighs and shoulders touching. His hands are linked on his lap.

  
“I know.”

  
He looks at you with steely eyes. “I want nothing more than to wake up, look at you, and never be afraid.”

  
You take his hand in yours and run your thumb across his veins. “You have your life, and I have mine. It hurts, but we can’t be together. That’s just… that’s just the way it is.”

  
“Yeah, and that’s bullshit,” he lets out a dark chuckle, tongue spewing with spite and anger. He stares at your linked hands. “You know, I could just move here. Find a job, tend to your farm, I don’t know. We could make it work.” He looks at you with desperation that you can’t help but almost agree to that. You smile sadly.

  
“We could get found out, beat up, maybe even killed.”

  
“I don’t give a shit about that.”

  
“I’d rather have you alive and not with me than dead because of me.”

  
Lew stares at you with a piercing look and you can’t help but share the weight of his world with yourself. He drops his head to your chest and you hold him there. He does not cry. He does not sob. He just tries to live. You bury your nose in his hair and tell him, “Let’s make this night memorable, Lew. It’s all I ask before you leave.”

  
“There’s another option, you know,” he says to your shirt. You try to believe that there is.

  
His face finds your neck and trails soft kisses on your freckled skin. His one hand holds the side of your head as the other clutches your shoulder. He’s on top of you now, and you could feel the orgasm coming out before his mouth could even touch yours. You are submissive under the touch of his fingertips, cradling your hips underneath your shirt. You grab two fistfuls of his hair as he pushes his body closer to yours. In the middle of a deep kiss, he stops and looks at you.

  
You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you can’t get the words out of your mouth.

  
“I love you,” you say instead, and that makes him smile the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. He looks like the young boy you met at Officer Candidate School, passionate and full of life, untouched by the war. He pulls your head to his chest and holds it there, his mouth on your hair. You grip his body as if you’re holding on for dear life, because you are.

  
There is a moment of relief – of hope that this could be the life you live, but your mind reminds you that you can’t. You cannot. You have to let him go and live his life and have kids that look like him with a wife that loves him with every fiber of her being. Your friends always told you that you loved him even when he least deserved it – when he was demoted for constantly being too drunk, when he threw a hissy fit after getting news of his divorce, whenever he picked up a bottle of whiskey or opened his flask for a swig. You disagree; Lewis Nixon deserves much more than what you could give him.

  
You barely sleep as the two of you lie down on your bed, legs tangled together with your head on his chest. He runs his fingers through your red hair and you listen to his breathing. The both of you are content with the silence, and simply existing together, as you await for the morning to come.

  
When you wake, you are alone in bed. In panic, you sit up, only to find him standing in front of the window, staring out to the field. The sun hits his face and perfectly frames the bones on his cheeks, on his jaw. He turns to you with that smirk on his face and kisses you in the mouth. He announces that he cooked for you, and you debate whether it’s adorable or dangerous, knowing his track record in the kitchen.

  
You enjoy this morning -- this beautiful day that offends you because it contrasts the ache you feel on your chest whenever you look at him, knowing that in a few hours, you wouldn’t be together anymore. His bacon sandwich is good enough, if not slightly burnt at the edges. He notices your discomfort and chuckles, saying you’ll miss his cooking when he’s gone. You try to laugh it off but those words stab you painfully in the gut. After you shower, he’s already at the living room, suitcase on his foot. He’s wearing the pale yellow dress shirt he arrived with, looking as handsome as he could possibly be. It takes you a lot of constraint not to undress him on the spot.

  
You drive your rusty blue pick-up truck to the train station, with Lew on the passenger’s seat. He’s linked his left hand to your right, hidden safely underneath a dusty blanket in your car. You look at him every so often and catch him smiling at nothing, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb. But as soon as you near the station, his face does not hold a single upturn on the lips. His hand’s grip on yours tightens.

  
The both of you wait for his train at one of the benches, shoulders pressed together and an uncomfortable silence hanging between you. You feel the need to touch him but can’t, so you just sit there as close to him as you can and try to enjoy the last moments you have with each other.

  
You can hear the deafening chugging of the train and you watch as it comes closer.

  
He stands up and you follow him.

  
He looks at you, head close, eyes glassy, and begs, “Ask me to stay.”

  
You pull him into a hug that is as intimate as you can make it to be. He pats you on the back and returns your embrace, and you bury your head to his neck for a moment before catching yourself. You start to pull back when he grabs you again and lingers on your body, this time his grip is harder on your waist and shoulders. You memorize his entire being pressed against yours and plaster the memory in your head.

  
When he pulls away, he gives you a small smile that betrays the sad look in his eyes. “Write to me, okay? And buy a telephone, will you?”

  
You chuckle, hands on your pockets. “Of course. Next time, I’ll be the one to visit.”

  
He nods. “I’ll hold you to that.” He boards the train and you follow his silhouette as he finds a spot. He looks out to you on the window and pulls it up. “I’ll see you.”

  
You promise. “You will.”

  
The train suddenly starts as the engines vibrate in a familiar hum. A panic washes over you as it moves, with Lew – _your Lew_ – with it. He doesn’t look back anymore when the train pulls out of the station in a quick, steady pace. When it is no longer in sight, reality kicks you in the gut. But you’ve already prepared yourself for this kind of heartbreak. You don’t follow him, you don’t ask him to stay. You just let him go.

  
You let go of his dark, disheveled hair and smooth skin. His whisky-tainted tongue and the cigarette smoke in his breath. You let go of the way he looks at you like he loves you, and his easy conversation. A sun-like smile that never burns. The feeling of home in someone’s arms. You try to convince yourself it’s for the best.

  
You convince yourself that your love will never be perfect, that it will be full of secretive weekends and hidden kisses and nights lamenting over the fact that he can never be truly yours. You convince yourself that he’ll be happier with a girl who can give him a child, a future, a life. You convince yourself that maybe in another universe, you could have been together, but you were unlucky enough to be in this one.

  
You don’t dwell much on how it could have been.

  
If you’d asked him to stay.

  
If you were stronger.

 

If you held his hand a bit tighter on the car.

  
Maybe you could have had the life you deemed was perfect – sitting on the front porch, reading the paper as he plays around your lawn with a child that looks just like him, both your hairs a shiny silver and skin wrinkled from the years you shared together. You imagine all of the scenarios wherein your love wins, and conclude that that life did not belong in this universe.

  
So, you hold on to the promise of two-page letters and telephone calls and weekends just like this one. You will move on – you have to, eventually – but right now, you allow yourself to love him.

  
You allow yourself to love him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i really enjoyed writing this :)


End file.
